


Sweet Dreams

by APgeeksout



Category: NXT
Genre: Chocolate Box Treat, Domesticity, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 20:48:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17773985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: He is not alone in the house.  He feels it prickling at the edges of his dulled senses as soon as he crosses the threshold: another presence in his sanctuary here - more mundane but no less sacred, in its own way, than the shell of the empty church outside the city limits.





	Sweet Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chasesstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasesstarlight/gifts).



"Need any help getting in, bro?" asks the kid behind the wheel as he puts the Jeep in to park at the end of his front walk. 

Aleister thinks he can be forgiven for having forgotten his name already - he's on enough painkillers to make his thoughts thick and muddy, even if they don't quite conceal all the aches in his body - and he's a new face. One who was in Mr. Regal's office at the time Aleister was lying crumpled on the asphalt, and can apparently be trusted to do favors for the G.M., like ferrying him home from the hospital. 

"The man in charge said I should stick around a while, if you'd let me," the kid prompts, and Aleister notices for the first time that his chauffeur is barefoot.

Aleister shakes his head and levers the door open, taking a beat to brace himself to move stiffly from the seat to the sidewalk. "No. I appreciate the offer, but not as much as I'll appreciate solitude and my own bed."

The kid accepts the brush-off with easy grace and a "later, bro" and pulls away from the curb with a wave once Aleister's managed to unlock and open the front door.

He'd pleaded solitude to the kid, but he is not alone in the house. He feels it prickling at the edges of his dulled senses as soon as he crosses the threshold: another presence in his sanctuary here - more mundane but no less sacred, in its own way, than the shell of the empty church outside the city limits. 

The presence doesn't feel malevolent, but, between the stew of chemicals in his system and the fact that he'd had no inkling of danger in the parking lot until blood and consciousness were already leaking from his body, he's less sure of his instincts than usual. He sets down the crinkling plastic bag the hospital had wrapped his scant possessions and numerous prescriptions in and arms himself with a dagger - keen-edged and far more powerful than its short blade might appear - before he moves further into the house, alert as he's capable of being at the moment for signs of disturbance.

The living room is as he left it, except for the absence of a hoodie he's sure was draped over one arm of the sofa. Still, it wouldn't be unheard of for the cats to have dragged it off somewhere, another spoil of war to line a secret nest of stolen socks and eviscerated catnip mice. 

Someone has brewed coffee in his kitchen, the carafe upturned and already dry on the dishboard, alongside the breakfast dishes he left in the sink before heading in to the P.C. that last morning. His relaxes fractionally around the dagger's hilt; probably no one who meant him harm would go to the effort of scrubbing his skillet first. He relaxes further when he sees that the food and water dishes have all been refilled and situated neatly on the mat in the corner of the room given over to the cats. 

The air in the back hallway smells faintly of laundry soap, and the metal of the dryer is warm under his fingertips. The bathroom is unoccupied by either threatening invaders or unexpected housekeepers. 

In the absence of many overnight guests or much uncontained clutter, he uses the spare room as a meditation space. It, too, is empty and serene. He longs to sink to the floor in the center of the rug and recenter himself, but resists: he isn't certain he could get back up under his own power at the moment, and besides, there's still another soul announcing itself somewhere in the stillness of the house.

That leaves only the bedroom, and opening the door both answers his question and gives him a few new ones. One Totty Potato, one Tubby Tomato, and one Velveteen Dream are all sleeping soundly in his bed. He sets the dagger down on the top of the dresser, certain now that he's under no further threat. Tubby gives his customary grumble and stretches his squatty little form before turning himself back into an orange loaf under Dream's arm. An arm which is covered by the sleeve of Aleister's own AWOL sweatshirt. 

As he draws closer to where Totty's draped himself majestically over the foot of the bed to scratch underneath the little monster’s fuzzy chin, Aleister sees that he's also wearing a pair of black shorts that look more like something from his own drawer than anything in the Dream's voluminous wardrobe. The only bit of sparkle and flash he's wearing right now is the loud purple and pink paisley pattern of the silk scarf tied around his hair. In sleep, his face is peaceful against the pillow, luminous and untroubled and startlingly young. 

Rather than sprawled across as much of the mattress as possible - taking up every bit of space he feels he's due, just as he does in his waking hours - Dream is lying on his side, curled in a little around the purring lump that is Tubby, surprisingly compact at rest. His sleeping shape leaves enough room that Aleister could ease his aching body down beside him without having to wake him or nudge him aside. Suddenly exhausted, dazed from the little bit of walking that he's done since leaving the hospital behind - from the surprise of finding an unguarded Dream in his space; from the recognition that he's thought enough about what Dream might look like in his bed to be surprised by the reality - he does just that, giving an involuntary groan as he settles into the soft surface. 

He’s still for only a few minutes before sleep is stalking him from close by. As he drifts off, he feels blunted claws kneading into his calf, a set of light fingers over his sternum, the soft press of lips against his temple. The last thing he hears before he goes under is a quiet, “Sweet dreams, sweet thing.”


End file.
